In Which Thievery Abounds and a Placard Pronounces Home
by Asidian
Summary: Jack and kid!Loki of Journey Into Mystery raid Asgardia's kitchens and North's workshop in an ongoing campaign of mischief. Finding a home with each other is just a little bonus along the way. Part 3 of the In Which an Unlikely Friendship Comes to Be series.


Author's Notes: Written for the rotg_kink meme, for the anon who wanted kid!Loki from Journey Into Mystery and Jack Frost getting into mischief. You may want to read the fics that come before this, "In Which Two Creatures of Ice Without Any Friends Find Each Other," and "In Which a New Holiday is Prevented and 300 Years is Very Long," but it isn't necessary.

The fantastically amazing beanclam drew art for this series! Check it out here: beanclam dot tumblr dot com/post/41085323441/as-promised-more-jack-frost-and-kid-loki

* * *

In Which Thievery Abounds and a Placard Pronounces Home

* * *

The boy that comes with the winds has not the mind for strategy. This Loki discovers when the pair of them sit perched in the tree above Asgardia's kitchens, staring down at the serving folk that bustle to and fro, arms laden with sacks of flour and steaming, tempting platters destined for the feasting hall.

Jack has gone overlong, perhaps, with the expectation that he will not be seen – for this bringer of winter proposes the most guileless of plans. "I'll just walk in," the boy says. "I can grab a few things and slip out behind someone who's leaving."

Loki regards the boy for a long moment without speaking. He sets a hand upon Jack's shoulder, for he has been conscientious, since they have shared in the Midgardian tradition of sleeping over, of the fact that his new companion craves touch. "Truly? You can envision no outcome grander?" The quirk of his eyebrow, he has heard whispered, is a portent most ominous; the way his lips curl, he has been told, is a prelude to disaster. The little god of mischief employs both now, and he has every hope that Jack will see them for what they are meant to be. When a grin is his answer, a narrow slice of white both sharp and mischievous, Loki knows that this is so.

Below, a large, dark honey cake is being carried past, of a size such that the kitchen girl who bears it struggles with its weight. "As long as we're showing off," Jack begins, and waves a hand toward the pastry, "we're gonna need one of those."

"I'm partial to baked cod," adds Loki, brightly. "Four or five should serve."

And as simply as that, they are agreed.

Loki favors parchment and bindings and ink to craft his plans, but Jack will not hear of such things. Instead, the one who brings the winter leads them into the woods, and he draws upon the ice of a frosted pond.

The details that they arrange appear in fanciful swirls, one after the next, as soon as they are dreamed to life. They are unaccountably lovely, these words given solid form. They are striking to the eye, with each scene drawn out as it is meant to be, filled in with elaborate swoops and the natural grace of frost. When they have finished, their enthusiasm has run both high and long; they anticipate a bounty so large that it will require a beast of burden to bear the load, and the whole of the pond is thick with their fancies. Jack wipes it clear with the touch of a hand, that none may venture upon their plans after they have gone – that none may spoil what is to come.

And come it does. On this day, a blizzard beats upon the gates of Asgardia.

Half hidden among the snow that howls in, thick and fast, are glimpses of frost giants: the long line of a striking blue arm, the harsh spiked head of a club. They are strange and ethereal, these giants, half visible only, but Heimdall reports them, as he reports all that threatens the realm of the gods. They do not seem as frost giants are wont – they shimmer and fade, seen only in segments through the breaks in the weather – but magic is not a force to be trifled with, and this seems of magic to the watchman. This seems of trickery most vile, and Heimdall will not be remiss in his duty.

He sounds the alarm, and the warriors abandon their feasting to don armor. Those who cannot partake in battle gather up arms and fall back within the castle, a final line of defense should the worst come to pass. And in the sudden commotion of promised combat, none notice that Thor's goats are borrowed for a time. None notice when they are returned.

Much later, after the storm has calmed, all speak of the foray against the cowardly frost giants. All speak of their audacity – hiding with arcane wiles, refusing to reveal themselves or engage directly, even unto the very end, when they fled with the tempest that granted them cover. The serving attendants return to the kitchens, and some mark that their supplies have dwindled – but it is known well and widely that Volstagg often seeks satisfaction after a battle, and so the loss is not pondered overlong.

And in a decrepit, abandoned tower, where the wind wails through the holes and the roof lets in flurries of snow, two boys sit laughing upon the floor amidst riches that would surely have earned the jealousy of any master thief.

They feast upon pilfered cake, upon pies and moose steak and baked cod, upon stew and smoked mackerel and fresh cheese. They eat in the way of boys without adults to chastise them for their manners – with fingers and earnest appreciation– and when at last they have slowed and Loki is picking morsels for the hellhound that promises to burn him to cinders if he does not, Jack turns a considering look his way.

"Hey," he says, and sets a bit of lamb shank upon the floor for Thori, who gobbles it up. It does not matter to the dog that he cannot see his benefactor, so long as food is supplied from somewhere. "Have you ever heard of the North Pole?"

* * *

The boy that comes with the wind stands upon the edge of Loki's tower, looking out at the horizon. "You ready?" he asks.

The little god of mischief nods and steps forward to accept the invitation. "Had I second thoughts," he says, "I would have shared them. They're even better than my first thoughts, you know." He clasps both arms about Jack's neck; he tucks both legs up at his sides so that he is borne upon the boy's back in the manner Midgardians insist bears some resemblance to pigs, though Loki has not yet discerned how. The one who brings the winter is easier to hold in this fashion than his brother, for where Thor is all bulk and muscle, Jack is slight of limb and narrow of frame, bony and gangly and slim.

For an instant, the boy grows tense with surprise, awkward with the unaccustomed touch. For an instant, Loki thinks that Jack will overbalance and drop him altogether. But a moment passes, and then another, and though there is a minute trembling all through his companion, as though this borders overwhelming, Jack adjusts his stance for the extra weight, and he grips his shepherd's crook more firmly, and he says, voice wavering only a little, "Hold on tight."

This Midgardian legend, this creature that brings the ice, has jumped from the tower before Loki can reply.

The little god of mischief screams, short and sharp, and for an instant they fall unsupported, stomachs plummeting, a visceral rush of thrill. Then the wind catches them up as though they weigh no more than snowflakes. It lifts and twirls them; it handles them as a master marksman handles the lightest of throwing knives. It rushes them forward, toward the end of a race yet unknown, and Loki finds himself thinking that this is as unlike his brother's flight as unlike can be.

Where always before, the act has been for the sake of convenience, this is less about purpose and more about delight. And he _is_delighted, Loki finds as they skirt the tops of too-near trees and then plunge down to twist among them. There is something of excitement to be had in this, something of joy, and he wonders whether the experience bears much resemblance to the Midgardian coasters that roll. He has never seen the appeal, but now, glad and amazed in the brisk winter air, he is certain that he does.

They fly on, and below pass forests and lakes, rivers and mountains, cities where the people below point and stare up at them. They laugh together to think of the sight they must make: a single figure that rides, pig-like, upon the back of nothing. Past the cities comes the sea, wide and blue; it catches the light and reflects the glare of the sun back at them, and now and again they spot the undulating shadow of a behemoth of the deep below the waves.

The wind carries them ever-onward, and ice appears amidst the water, great towering chunks of it.

"We're almost there," Jack promises, but Loki is not bothered by the length of the flight. For the first time, he is seeing the wonders of Midgard that always before some pressing business has kept him from visiting of his own accord. It is exhilarating, this voyage for the sake of diversion only. It is liberating, to have no All-Mother to answer to, no demons to appease, no past version of himself to outthink.

"I'd not mind if we were twice as long," Loki confesses, and he may be known as the god of lies, but there is nothing of falsehood in these words.

They leave behind the ocean, and when the ground appears, it does not surprise Loki that the bringer of winter knows a place such as this one, for here there is naught but white. The ground is white, and the cliffs are white, and even the creatures that lumber past far below them, solid and formidable and furred, are white. He can feel the cold pressing in about him like a cloak, but he does not shiver with it; like the boy that guides him here, such things do not concern him.

There is but a single building: it rises up like a rounded palace in the pale landscape, and when they are near enough to peer inside the windows, Loki takes in a startled breath. "Here we go," Jack says. "Santa's workshop."

It is lively, this place, in a way that Asgardia is not. There are no warriors here, no towers, no watchmen. The bustle is not meant for weapons, but is dedicated instead to trinkets of the sort most prized by children. The owner of this palace, this Santa Claus of Midgardian legend, must be a craftsmith of worth, for within the window there are worlds in miniature. Dolls the size of Loki's hand are painted in perfect tones of flesh. Automated coaches and flying vehicles each work as intended, racing upon tables and in the air. Soft animals of a size for a child to hold are stacked like miniature pyramids, fur and fabric and ribbons pristine and inviting. Each alone would be a prize; together, they are a hoard the likes of which Loki has never seen.

"Those boots have blades beneath them!" the little god of mischief exclaims, leaning down to get a better look as a great, furred creature passes with a full box of them. He stares for a moment, attempting to guess at what they might be used for. "Amazingly practical, if one's enemy happens to be directly below one's feet."

"They're for skating on the ice," Jack says, laughing. He leans with the boy clinging to his back, so that they both do not fall forward. "It's fun – we'll get you some, for sure."

There is more to be seen, however, than this chamber of playthings. There are kitchens where a feast to rival any in Asgardia is underway; there is high, arched room laden with lights and greenery; there is a great hall with a globe of Midgard; there are bedchambers with rich draperies and thick bedding.

Loki instructs the bringer of winter to carry him near enough to see it all, to fly about the building so that he may take the measure of it. He examines the doors, the windows, the chimneys, the roof, the walls. He asks after how the materials for the toys are acquired. He thinks, and then he thinks again, and then he begins to grin.

"We'll need a place to return to," says the little god of mischief. "For when we've robbed them blind."

* * *

They take the afternoon to build it, and when they are nearly complete, Loki makes his announcement: "No king could wish a better fortress."

"Well, he could," Jack says. "But it'd be his loss."

The boy is finishing the last of the work, glancing at the diagrams that Loki has scratched into the wall. What has been put down in pictures, Jack creates; it is a simple matter, for this spirit of winter to shape the ice, and he takes pride in it. Between the two of them, they have made a fortress most pleasing of form.

It is sturdy and strong, with thick walls that keep out the wind, and though there is but a single room, Loki finds this place strangely welcoming. His tower never has been so, and he marvels at the difference. There is nothing – no pallet upon the floor, no small marks to show that he has lived here – and yet even so, he finds that he grows attached.

It is not until he sees Jack's touch linger upon the wall as he works that Loki supposes he is not alone in this.

"We might add a placard," the little god of mischief suggests. "The sort with flowers."

The one that comes with the wind leaves off his work to fix a bemused expression upon his companion. "Flowers?" he echoes.

"They'd not _have_to be flowers. Not in actual fact. That's only the tradition." Loki strokes his chin and makes a show of trying to remember, though he has the words to mind already. "What is it they say? The signs that hang upon doors."

"Oh, no," Jack tells him, laughing. "No way. We're not decorating a snow fort like some old lady's house."

But when all the rest is complete and it is time to venture forth, Loki discovers that a placard has been carved upon the door. "Home sweet home," it reads, and the flowers have been replaced with snowflakes and small v of the horns he wears upon his chest.

* * *

It is chaos. It is madness, and Loki finds that he adores every instant of it.

Jack slips unannounced down the chimney, and while the great hairy creatures that the boy calls yetis chase him through the building – while he slicks the floors and leaves icicles upon the beams and refuses to stay still long enough to be held – Loki slips in behind him and shimmies down more carefully.

The bringer of winter leads the pursuit on a merry chase, and Loki takes the back hallways. Jack calls flippant insults and makes a spectacle, and Loki stays to the sides and to the shadows. The boy that comes with the wind goads the hairy creatures into a game of catch, and Loki finds the great red sleigh and loads it with marvels. In goes sumptuous food and intricate playthings, mounds of bedding and the bladed boots that skate upon the ice.

He has just made a final trip, arms filled with the mesmerizing lights that hang from the doorways, when Jack barrels into the room, panting for breath but grinning like he has won a contest of arms. "Time to go," he says, and the footfalls of the yetis are loud in the corridor. Loki scrambles into the sleigh and Jack leaps upon it, graceful and light as a bird. He reaches the reins first – seizes them in both fists and cracks them – and the great horned beasts intended to pull it stamp their hooves begin to move.

Behind them, a man's voice is bellowing, "What is meaning of this?" but if there is meant to be more, they do not hear it, for they are barreling down a tunnel of ice, shrieking laughter before they shoot out into a world of blue and white.

They are enamored of their own cleverness; they watch the palace in the snow fall away behind them with wide smiles and they speak both at once. "They didn't know what hit them!" and "Did you mark the looks upon their faces?" and though they keep watch for pursuit, there is none to be seen.

Giddy, they fill a sack of rich red cloth with the treasures at their feet – for they will return the sleigh, this marvelous construct with the power of flight. Jack insists upon it, claims that without his transport, the old toysmith will have no way to herald the Midgardian Yule. Loki yields readily enough: for after all, what need have they of a sleigh, when Jack can fly without? They will leave the horned beasts to return to their home.

When they have gathered the whole of it – glazed ham and fresh cookies, thick blankets and bright lights, boards upon which games are played, a basket through which balls are thrown, a small bear crafted from the softest of cloths – they stand upon the edge of the sleigh and watch the winter landscape. It is difficult to see, white upon white, but it was designed that way; their fort will be their camouflage, should this Santa Claus come to seek them.

"You ready?" asks the bringer of winter, for the second time this day.

In answer Loki leaps upon his back – and both boys fall with the momentum of it, tumble down and down until the wind catches them up and carries them in to land.


End file.
